Vicious
by Mister Mystery
Summary: Apollo has a past he doesn't like to talk about, doesn't even like to remember. Until he needs to. Then it all comes flooding back, and it seems like nothing can stop it. Rated for language and some violence.
1. Flashback

Sometimes I wonder about Phoenix Wright.

I sure as hell can never tell what he's thinking. He's always got that insufferable smile on his face, that cryptic grin that tells me nothing. Whenever he speaks, I always get the feeling that there's more to what he's saying, but when I ask he just laughs. He has an adopted daughter that he loves, but they have such an odd relationship. Well, _I'm_ certainly no expert on parent/child relationships, but it seems to me that if you have a teenage daughter, you ought to keep a better eye on her. She performs her act in a place called the Wonder Bar, for God's sake, and he isn't worried about her at all? Or maybe he is, but I just can't see it, because all he ever does is smile and look off into the distance. And what am I doing here anyway? It's late at night, I'm standing outside a bar, I'm cold, and I'm waiting for _his_ daughter.

Well. She is my sister, too. But that just opens up a whole _new_ can of worms-

"Oh, hey Polly. Where's daddy?"

I turn around and there she is, little teenage Trucy. Sixteen years old and the strangest person on the face of the planet. Except for her father of course. And his girlfriend. God, how did I fall in with these people?

"He couldn't make it Trucy," I explain, a hint of resentment in my voice. "He had a big poker game to prepare for, so he asked me to come."

"Oh." She seemed a little disappointed, but quickly recovered. "Well then, that's just more time I get to spend with my big bro."

I smile sheepishly and lead the way down the street. Mr. Wright's apartment is a mile or two away, and I want to get this done over with so I can go back home and get some sleep.

Trucy's making idle smalltalk and humming some catchy tune I've heard before. I'm not really listening. I keep thinking about Mr. Wright and how much I _don't_ understand him.

So he has a poker game to prepare for, huh? And that's more important than his daughter? I mean, I understand the importance of putting food on the table, but why does he always come to me with these 'requests' and 'errands' and 'favors?' Doesn't he have anyone else he could get to do this junk? Of course it would be a different situation if he was paying me for it, but that's certainly not the case. He's always asking 'as a friend, not a boss.' Since when are we friends? Aren't friends supposed to tell each other things? Y'know, _share_ information and _not_ keep secrets?

I sigh. Trucy takes notice. "You okay Polly?" She asks, leaning into my field of view.

"Fine," I reply curtly. "Just thinking about something."

For once, Trucy backs off without pestering me. Usually, she'd ask, "thinkin' about what?" and I'd reply "nothing," and she'd say "if you're thinkin' about nothing, why do you look like you're thinkin' about something?" and on and on and on until I break down and tell her. And then she'd be disappointed because she thought it was some big secret when actually I was thinking about my schedule for the next week.

I recollect my thoughts and find myself confused. Maybe I'm thinking about this the wrong way. Maybe Phoenix doesn't ask me to do these things just because he knows I'll do them, but because he _trusts_ me to do them. And the reason he asks me to escort Trucy home from the Wonder Bar is because he trusts that I'll keep her safe. Maybe he trusts me more than he trusts himself.

Chyeah, and maybe I'm Steve McQueen.

A man steps out in front of me and I don't notice until I'm within arm's reach. He's got a shaved head, a leather jacket, torn up jeans, and fingerless gloves. The kicker is the sunglasses. It's got to be past eleven. Who wears sunglasses at night?

"'Scuse me, sir," he says, and if I wasn't suspicious before, I sure as hell am when I hear his tone. "I was just wonderin' what time it was."

Trucy sidesteps out from behind me and begins to answer. "It's-"

"Time for us to go," I finish, grabbing her by the wrist and turn left. I see another dude in a leather jacket across the street. He waves a little at me. I turn around and decide to head right, down the alley the first punk came from.

It takes me a second before I realize what a bad idea that was.

All of a sudden, punks of all sizes, shapes, and hairstyles seem to appear in all directions, all with leather jackets and fingerless gloves. They were hiding in the shadows, waiting for someone foolish enough to walk down this alley.

We're surrounded.

_"Give it up, Justice. You're surrounded."_

_I spin around. The son of a bitch is right. They've got me cornered. I try to make a break for it through the line, but I'm caught and thrown back into the center of the circle._

_"Ah ah ah," he says, wagging his finger. "Not until we've had a bit of fun."_

_The first punch knocks me down, then it's all kicks. Heels and toes and boots and sneakers digging into my ribs and my stomach and my back. I can't breath. All I can do is curl up into a ball until it's over. I feel worthless. Useless._

Helpless.

I spin around. The man from the street steps toward us. I push Trucy behind me.

"Now now, buddy," he says in that same smarmy, confident tone of voice that makes me want to punch his lights out. "We don't wanna hurt the girl. We just want the money."

"What money?" I ask.

"Don't play dumb. Just hand over all the cash you got on you and we'll be on our way, right boys?" I see nods and hear affirmative noises behind me.

"I don't have any." It was actually true. I don't have much money to begin with, so I never carry more than a few bucks for a couple bus fares. Since I was walking tonight I didn't have anything.

Of course he doesn't believe me. "Don't lie to me, man," he says, stepping closer. "I know by your clothes and your company you must have somethin'. So why not just hand it over and get this over with?"

"I told you," I say, turning my pant pockets inside out. "I don't have any."

He seems a bit surprised by this turn of events, but I already know how this is going to end. Nothing I say or do is going to change it. He can't afford to look bad in front of his gang. He can't let us go without getting something out of us.

"And how about you, girly?" He's getting a little angry now.

"N-nothing." Trucy stutters behind me. I can feel her gloved hand on my shoulder. It's trembling. She's scared, really, honestly scared. It's the first time I've ever seen her that way.

_"Leave the girl alone," I shout._

_The son of bitch and his gang look up. "Why don't you mind your own busi-"_

_Then he remembers me. Anger flickers across his face, mingled with a wicked smile. Then he notices the backup I brought._

_"Who the fuck are you ridin' with?" The rest of his gang backs off. The girl is beaten and crying, but she's okay. Apparently we got here just in time to interrupt._

_"Some new friends," I say, gesturing to either side and the five members of the new gang I joined. "Apparently they hate your rat ass as much as I do."_

_The son of a bitch bares his teeth and growls - actually, literally growls - and the rest of his buddies line up with him. I can see them flexing their muscles, curling their hands into fists, feel the tension in the air between us as my gang does the same. I feel nervous. Scared._

Angry.

"I don't think I believe you," he says, playing out this predictable farce to the letter. "I think we're gonna have to take a look for ourselves."

They start to close in around us. Trucy's spinning around and breathing fast. I hear her ask for help and say my name. Not 'Polly.'

"Apollo!"

_The son of a bitch looks at me with his beady eyes, his rat like face, his yellow teeth._

_He's going down first._

The first punch his the leader, breaking his sunglasses and hopefully his nose. I hear the rest of them charge forward, yelling or shouting or taunting. I spin and pull Trucy out of the way. I catch a punch meant for me and return it in kind. Another fist snakes it's way past my defenses and nails me right above my right ear. For a second I can see stars and hear a tremendous ringing. It clears up long enough for me to see the kick catch me in the gut. I bend at the waist, clutching my stomach.

_It's an all out battle royale. In the confusion it's hard to tell friend from foe, and there's no time to hesitate. Punches and kicks are thrown, makeshift weapons are grabbed from the garbage on either side of the alley. Chains are swung, two by fours are snapped in half, lead pipes are brought to bear._

_I don't want to swing widly, don't want to catch one of my new friends in the face. That'd end our little kinship quickly. So I don't see the kick to my jewels coming until it's too late to stop it._

_I crumple like a rag doll, right to my knees. The son of a bitch stands over me, the chaos around him momentarily forgotten in his moment of triumph._

_"You always were a pussy, Justice," he says, smiling with those yellow teeth._

_I decide I've had enough of them._

I rise quickly, too fast for him to see, and nail the punk right under the chin with a devestating uppercut. He falls back, out for the count. Another comes at me from the left, swinging a chain. I'm ready for him. I bring my left arm up and catch the thing in mid swing. It wraps around my forearm, trapped momentarily by it's own inertia. I step in and introduce my right elbow to his face. He falls to the ground, clutching the bleeding lump that was his nose.

Suddenly, I hear a scream.

I spin around and two punks have gotten to Trucy. She's punching and kicking, but they're too big. She can't fight them off on her own.

They're _leering_ at her.

_"Fuck you, you son of a bitch!" I cry as I leap to my feet and charge after him. He's brought his mouth up to his face, and he's spitting blood. I don't care. It's not enough._

_He throws a punch and it misses. I throw my own but he blocks it. I grab both his arms and pull them away from his face. I slam my forehead into his._

I pull the chain off my arm and run forward, blood pounding through my ears, baring my teeth. I swing it at the nearest punk and the tip collides with his right eye. He falls back and bumps into a dumpster, ending up on the ground clutching his ruined eye. I throw the chain out of rage at the other punk and he catches it in the chest, staggering back. I tackle him to the ground -

_- and start wailing on him. He tries vainly to defend himself, but it doesn't help. I punch and punch and punch, my knuckles coming away bloody. Whether it's his or mine I don't know. I don't care._

_He's hurt so many of us._

Don't

_So many people beaten and bruised and humiliated._

touch

_Scarred and afraid, they do whatever he says._

my

_No more. His gang's time is up._

sister!

His_ time is up._

Another punk grabs me from behind and yanks me off him. He holds me up and the leader comes forward. His nose isn't broken, but his lip is bleeding.

"You mother fucker," he says furiously, pulling a switchblade from his pocket, "you broke my god damn sunglasses!"

_Someone yanks me off him. I spin around, and it's one of my new friends. "He's learned his lesson," he says, looking a little fearful of me._

_I look down at him. He's whimpering and whining, curled up into a ball on the ground. I want to hurt him more, because that's what the son of bitch would do if he were standing over me._

_But I'm not him._

_I nod and turn around. The rest of my boys made out alright. The other gang, not so much. They wouldn't be hurting anyone again._

_Suddenly I hear a desperate, bestial sound behind me. The son of a bitch tackles me to the ground. He's got a knife. He's trying to kill me._

I slam my head backwards and it connects with the punk holding me. Stars flash before my eyes. Somehow I manage to catch the arms of the leader. He's trying to overpower me, get through long enough to stick me with the knife. I'm not going to last long like this. So I fight dirty.

I put my teeth around the fingers holding the knife and bite down hard. The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth as he screams in pain and drops the knife. I throw out an elbow to back him off, then grab the knife on the ground and rush forward. I press him up against the wall. My teeth are bared, my forearm is over his neck, the knife is poised to strike -

"APOLLO!"

I freeze. It suddenly becomes clear to me what just happened. What I'm doing. What's in my hand.

I back off and drop the knife. The leader of the punks collapses to the ground against the wall, clutching at his throat. I turn around slowly. The rest of the punks are laid out, in varying states of consciousness, and with various injuries.

I can barely even remember what happened.

I turn further and see Trucy staring at me. Her jaw is slack, her cape is dirty, and she lost a glove, but otherwise she's okay.

"What was that?!" She asks incredulously.

My mouth opens, then closes. I stumble over an explanation until I realize this is neither the time, nor the place. I race forward, grab her by the arm again, and run for the apartment, dragging her behind me. The pained moaning and groaning of the punks follows me all the way there.


	2. Nightmare

We ran.

I didn't stop. I couldn't stop. I had to get Trucy somewhere safe. That was what was most important.

But now that we've arrived outside her building, I don't know what to do.

"Do you have a key?" I ask. I notice I'm not breathing very hard. Must be the adrenaline from the fight.

Trucy's bent at the waist, hands on her knees, gasping for breath. She looks up and nods, her hat almost falling from her head.

I turn on my heel and start walking away. I hear her call out behind me. I don't listen. I have to get home, have to get away from her, from everyone.

Something hits me in the back of the head, right on a sore spot. I cry out and turn around, rubbing my injured scalp gingerly.

Trucy's standing there, hands on her hips, scowling at me. Her hat is missing. I look down at my feet and there it is. She points at it.

"Gimme my hat back," she says angrily.

I just blink stupidly for a second, then I reach down and pick up her blue top hat. I walk over, slowly, and reach out to hand it back to her. Suddenly she grabs my forearm and pulls, dragging me inside the building.

"Gotcha!" She says triumphantly, leading me across the lobby to the elevator.

I'll never understand Trucy. One minute everything is fun and games, the next it's nothing but serious business, then it's right back to normal again.

I let her pull me along - grudgingly - until we're inside the apartment. She closes and locks the door behind her, then turns to me.

"Start talkin', buster," she says.

I sigh. I really don't want to. This isn't something I'm comfortable sharing with _anyone_, let alone my little sister. She'd probably hate my guts if she knew. I know I do.

"Trucy, please," I beg her. "Just let it be."

"Not a chance." She steps closer, reaching for my arm. I turn my back to her.

For a moment, awkward silence. Then she says, "Do you want something for that head?"

I reach up and rub my scalp again. It's got some serious bumps, and I'm pretty sure it was bleeding at one point. I nod.

She jogs past me and into the bathroom. I step further into the apartment and park myself on the only sofa, slumping backwards and staring at the ceiling.

At first I begin to wonder what the good god damn just happened, but I already know. I just wish so hard it were something else. All the rage, all the frustration, all the terrible memories bubbling beneath the surface finally found an outlet. I barely had to think. All I had to do was act. Visions that I had surpressed and buried flowed to the surface and I couldn't stop them. I wasn't sure I wanted to.

Trucy emerges from the bathroom with bandages, disinfectant, some cotton pads, and a toothbrush. . . wait, a toothbrush?

She pours out a bunch of disinfectant onto a cotton pad and shoves the toothbrush into my mouth sideways. "Bite down on this," she says. I wonder what she's talking about until the horrible stinging pain hits me full force. I stamp my feet and clench my teeth and I'm fairly certain I would have broken it if the pain hadn't lasted longer than a few seconds.

"Big baby," I hear her mumble. Somehow, I manage a smile. She dabs a bit of disinfectant on my knuckles and wraps the bandages around my hands.

"That all?" She asks, removing the toothbrush from my mouth and setting it on the table.

"Yeah, the rest is just bruises mostly. I'll be fine."

"Good." She parks herself on the sofa next to me. "Then you can start talkin' about what just happened."

I groan. "Trucy-"

"Don't 'Trucy' me!" She wags her ungloved finger at me. "You were amazing! Where did you learn to do that?"

"Nowhere," I shoot back. "I just . . . picked it up along the way. Look, I really don't want to talk about it-"

"Well I do, so too bad!" Her expression softens and she leans forward, trying to look into my eyes. "Polly, come on. You can tell me anything. It's not like I'm gonna be mad."

"Yes, you will." I stand and pace towards the door. "I've never told anyone about it and I'm not going to start with you."

"Apollo-!" She races after me and grabs my arm to spin me around -

_"Justice, you look at me when I'm talkin' to you!" The son of a bitch glares down at me with his ugly brown eyes._

_"Back off," I bark at him -_

"and leave me alone!"

She backs away from me, but I'm not sure she understands how serious I am.

"I'm sick and tired of your pestering, you hear me?!" I advance, she retreats. "Why can't you ever bother someone else?!"

She's up against the wall. I take a step closer, only a few inches from her face.

"Why can't you ever just mind your own damn _business?!"_

I look into her eyes and see the fear there, just as powerful as before. She's trembling again.

. . . what am I doing? What's _wrong_ with me?

I back away hurriedly. She doesn't move, stays standing against the wall. An apology would sound so hollow right now that I can't even begin to say it. I just spin around and race out the door as fast as I can. I think I hear her sob as I leave. I convince myself it was just the door creaking.

Once I'm out of the building I start running again, and I don't stop until I'm inside my apartment. I slam the door shut behind me and slump against the frame. I pant and gasp for breath. My hands curl into fists. I roar something incomprehensible and punch the wall. I barely even feel the pain anymore. It's just one more layer on top of another.

I force myself to calm down. It's a long process. Eventually I'm able to maintain my cool long enough to strip off my clothes and climb into bed. Even the pillow hurts against my wounded head. I ignore the pain, but even so, sleep is a long time coming.

* * *

_I'm standing at the end of one long alley. The only light comes from the unusually large moon above my head. The walls are coated with neon graffiti that seems like it should make sense but doesn't. Ahead of me are two figures - one very large, the other tiny in comparison. I hear them shouting, struggling._

_"Back off, bonehead!"_

_Trucy lands a solid punch against her attacker, but it's not enough. He laughs and shrugs it off._

_"Not a chance, girly." He cackles - honest to God, cackles - and wraps his big meaty hand around her neck._

_I start running down the alley, but I don't seem to be making progress. They aren't getting closer. If anything, they're getting farther away. I call out, and Trucy turns and calls back, though it's weak and fading from the hand around her windpipe._

_"Apollo . . . !"_

_I get angry. The graffiti on either side starts to blur, changing shape. It starts taking the form of my teenage self, the son of a bitch that tormented me, my old gangs, the innocent children I saw hurt before my eyes._

_I get mad._

_Now they're getting closer, and I seem to be moving impossibly fast because there's no way I could close the distance in such a short time, but I don't care. All I care about is getting my hands on that bastard._

_I leap at him and lead with my fists, slamming into him with all the force I can muster. He crumples and flails against me, and we roll on the ground for what seems like an eternity. When we stop I'm on top of him and I start punching._

_I punch and punch and punch, putting all my weight behind every blow. He's not even trying to stop me anymore. Somehow I know Trucy's calling out to me, even though I can't hear her. All I can hear is my pounding heartbeat through my ears and the rhytmic thud of my fists against his face. Blood is everywhere, all over my hands. He has to be unconscious by now, but I don't stop. I won't stop. I can't stop. I'm not sure I want to stop._

_The alley seems narrowed now, closing in on me. The moonlight is a thin strip illuminating the body below me. My heartbeat slows in my ears but I keep punching. The moonlight gets dimmer and I keep punching. Blackness closes in around me._

I awake with a start, sitting bolt upright, head spinning around the room. The sun is pouring in through the window of my bedroom. My sheets and pillows are rumpled. No one's there.

I slow my breathing and move to the edge of the bed, bending over and putting my head between my knees. Haven't had a dream like that in years. Must have been the fight that triggered it.

Yeah. The fight. Not the fact that you screamed at your little sister. Swore at her. You never swore at Trucy before. Not until last night.

"Just a dream," I mumble to myself like a mantra. "Just a dream."

But as I stare at the bandages on my hand, it becomes harder and harder to dismiss.


	3. Confrontation and Resolution

I glance over at the digital clock radio next to my bed. Ten minutes to eleven. I'm late. Well, no sense in hurrying now.

I dress slowly, waiting for the memory of the dream to fade away. It doesn't. Figures. The worst dreams always stick with you, don't they.

I've gotten my shirt and pants on when there's a knock at the door. I walk over and stare out the peephole. It's Mr. Wright, looking his usual homeless self in the blue beanie hat and grey hoodie. He looks unusually focused. Probably ready to chew me out for now showing up.

I unlock the door and open it. "I'm sorry, Mr. Wright, I had a-"

He bursts in before I've opened the door fully. He shoves me back and against the wall with a speed I didn't think he was capable of. His left forearm is on my sternum, his right is holding down my arm. There's a righteous fury blazing in his eyes. I've never seen him so angry.

"What did you do to my daughter, Apollo?" He hisses at me.

_"I said, what did you do with my money?!"_

_"Go to hell," I groan as I lay curled on the ground before him._

_He spits on me as he and his boys go to work on me again. I can barely move, and I taste blood. But I can't just sit here and let them wail on me. If I'm gonna die, it's gonna be fighting._

_I feel my hands tighten into fists -_

- no. I won't. Not again.

I force my hands to go limp and manage to croak out, "Nothing."

I can feel his eyes boring into me, searching, probing for the truth behind my words. For a second, I think I perceive something there, behind the fury - betrayal?

After a few seconds he releases his hold on me. I support myself against the wall as he walks over to the nearby dining area of my small apartment and pulls a chair out. "Sit," he commands. I obey, and then he sits in the chair across from me, hands back in his hoodie pockets. He never once takes his eyes off me.

"Explain," he says in that same commanding tone.

"I don't know where to start."

"How about with why Trucy was crying when I got home last night."

I can't bear to look at him any longer. I slump against the round table, using my elbows for support.

"We were heading home from the Wonder Bar when it happened. Some guy wearing sunglasses and his buddy forced us into an alley and a whole gang crawled out of the woodwork. They asked for money and didn't believe me when I said I didn't have any. They were gonna . . . I don't know what they were gonna do. But I know it wouldn't have been good. So I started fighting them. I managed to lay them all out when the leader came at me with a knife. I managed to get it away from him and . . . " I sigh wearily. "If Trucy hadn't been there to stop me, I would have killed him."

I can't look at him. He doesn't move a muscle when he speaks.

"How many of them were there?"

I try to count them all in my memories without paying attention to the actual events.

"Eight."

A long pause as he considers this information. I still can't look him in the eye, so I keep myself focused on the table beneath my elbows.

"You said you would have killed him," he says slowly, his tone softening slightly. "Why?"

And there it is. The question I've been dreading. The one thing I've never told anyone since it happened. The source of all my problems. And I can't say a word. I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. My palms are itching. Remnants of an addiction I'd kicked five years ago. Hadn't bothered me in a long time until right now. Figures. It's just one thing on top of another, today.

Suddenly Phoenix stands, hands still on his pockets. He walks over to the door, opens it, and walks out.

I let my head fall onto my arms on the table. I just sit there, listening to myself breath and scratching at my palms. I don't bother to lock the door.

A good thing, since a few minutes later, Phoenix returns, carrying a small plastic bag. I recognize the logo on it - it's from the drug store down the street. He sits back in his chair and removes a carton of cigarettes. He tears it open, takes a pack out, removes the plastic wrapping, and offers it to me.

I'm more than a little surprised. Phoenix Wright is far more perceptive than I give him credit for.

The itching is insistent now, yearning. I spent five years kicking this habit, I'm not going to waste them getting back into it. But a smoke would help with my nerves.

I compromise and remove a single cigarette from the pack in his hand. I tamp it a few times on the table but when I put it in my mouth I realize I don't have a lighter. Phoenix surprises me once again by reaching over and flicking on a disposable Bic. I inhale and the flavor fills my mouth and my throat and my lungs. It's comfortable, familiar, like I never forgot it. I can feel my muscles begin to relax, the tensity in my hands and arms falling away.

For a second I just stare at the cigarette in my hand. It's not a menthol. I wonder if Phoenix once knew someone who smoked.

"Well?" He says, patiently.

I sigh once again, smoke blowing out from my mouth. "It's a long story."

He doesn't say anything. I take another drag and begin.

"I never knew my father or my mother. All I ever knew was orphanages and foster homes. People who weren't my parents, couldn't be my parents no matter how hard they tried. I wasn't a very good kid. I snuck out a lot, ran away and hid in parks or playgrounds. They'd always find me, but I never really wanted to get away. I just wanted to be alone for a while, have the illusion of freedom for just a few hours."

Phoenix stands and walks over to the kitchen area, grabbing a glass (why call it a glass when it's made out of plastic?) out of the cupboard. He sets it in front of me and sits back down. For a moment I don't know what he's trying to say, but then I look at my cigarette. I flick the ash into the plastic glass and continue.

"My teenage years were . . . troubled. I fell in with the usual; gangs, crews, the wrong crowd in general. There was one kid who put 'em all to shame. Met him when I was in my last orphanage. He fought, stole, smoked, dealed, and anyone who got in his way or had something he wanted, he beat within an inch of their life. A real son of a bitch."

Another drag on my cigarette. I chanced a glance at Phoenix. He was wearing his poker face. Of course.

"Anyway, he had a few boys he ran with. Couple guys almost as bad as he was, a few more who just followed him because they were afraid of him. 'Better to be at the Devil's side' and all that. Anyway, he beat me up a fair few times, sometimes for a reason, sometimes just because he had nothing better to do. But it wasn't just me. It was other kids, always littler than he was, always weaker. They'd end up with black eyes and bruised ribs and broken fingers and they couldn't tell a soul who did it because if they did he'd just do worse. So one day I've had enough. I go to another crew, people who hated this son of a bitch as much as I did. They weren't model citizens, but they weren't monsters like him. We go and catch him and his gang in the middle of beating some poor girl whose name I never got. We get into a fight, beat the living shit out of 'em, and they have to pull me off the son of a bitch before I kill him. He was bleeding from practically every hole on his face. I wanted to do more, but I stopped. There had to be a limit. There had to be a place where I couldn't go, or I was just like him."

I take one long, final drag before I drop the cigarette in the glass.

"But he wasn't done. He pulls a knife - where he got that I'll never know - and tackles me to the ground. I barely have enough strength to fend him off at this point. The others are frozen, too scared to get near. He's snarling like an animal, and when I think I can't hold him off any longer, the girl he was beating on comes to my rescue. She wraps one arm around his neck and yanks on his hair with the other. He falls back off me and shakes the girl off, slicing her arm with the knife. The sight of him with the bloody knife, looming over the girl clutching her arm with her face contorted in pain . . . I just lost it. I rushed forward and clocked him with all the strength I had and he dropped the knife. I grabbed it while he was dazed and."

I sigh and place my face in my hands, elbows leaning on the dining room table. I let the sentence hang unfinished in the air.

"My crew said they'd get rid of the body and the knife. They took the girl home too. She had to go to the hospital, get a bunch of stitches, but she was alright."

I drop one hand and run the other through my hair.

"I was out from then on. I didn't get involved in anything violent anymore. I spent the vast majority of my time with my head in books, mostly law. I guess I kept thinking the police were going to show up one day and cart me away and I wanted to be able to defend myself. A few months later I was adopted by another foster family and they encouraged my reading and a year or so after that I got a scholarship into the Ivy University Law School. Quit smoking, studied hard, and graduated at twenty two. I thought I'd put the whole thing behind me, but now . . . now I don't know."

For a long time, the room was silent. The cigarette had burned itself out. The remains of the smoke wafted through the air, catching the sunlight from the windows.

"Sounds like a textbook case of self-defense to me."

I look at him, shocked. He still hadn't moved. He was like a poorly dressed statue.

I force myself to stand and pace towards the opposite end of the room. "Even if it _was_ self-defense, that doesn't change anything. Someone is dead because of me. I killed him. I'm just supposed to shrug that off like it's nothing?" I lean against the windowsill and hang my head. "I've got all this rage, all this, this," I struggle to find the words, "this _ugly shit_ inside of me, and I don't want anyone else to see it. More than that, I don't want it to get anyone else. I yelled at Trucy last night, swore at her. I'm afraid all that I've got bottled up is just going to explode again like last night and I won't be able to control myself. It _terrifies_ me."

"I know. I've seen it. The first day I met you."

I spin around and he's still sitting in his chair. There's the vaguest hint of a smile on his face. What is he - oh.

"I punched you."

"Don't feel bad. I deserved it." He stands and walks over to me, smiling a little wider. "I had a feeling the whiny, easily flustered Apollo Justice was more than he appeared to be."

"Whiny?!" I say incredulously.

Now he's _laughing._ What is _wrong_ with this man? "Just kidding, Apollo. Just kidding."

My shoulders sag. "Have you heard a word I've said?"

"Of course," he replies. "It's good that you feel guilty about it. It shows you have a good heart. But I don't think you should lose any sleep over that scumbag."

"But what about -"

"I'm not worried about you losing it either." He pulls his hand out of his pocket and puts it on my shoulder. "I think you've got it together more than you realize, Apollo. You just need to find a . . . " His eyes rise to the ceiling as he searches for the right word. ". . . A more _constructive_ outlet for your feelings."

I shrug helplessly. "How?"

He smiles warmly at me. "I'm sure you'll figure it out." Then he pulls me into a gentle hug, and I just freeze up.

"Be glad that you're you, Apollo," he says as he pats me on the back. "If you weren't, Trucy might not be here."

For a moment I'm overcome by emotion. I sniff a little and blink back a couple tears. Then he pushes away and claps me on the shoulder. "Coming to the office today?" He asks.

I nod and dry my eyes, hoping he didn't catch those tears. He gives no indication that he did. "Good," he says with a grin, turning toward the door. "Trucy'll want to hear what you told me, so don't make her wait too long." He picks up the carton of cigarettes off the table and heads out the door. "See you!" He says cheerfully as he leaves.

I pace around the room for a bit, dumbstruck at how well that went. It always goes over so much worse in my head. I quickly head for the bedroom and finish dressing, thinking about what Phoenix said to me. 'A more constructive outlet.' What's constructive about vicious rage? How can I use that? What could I possibly use it for?

I think about it the entire time I'm getting ready. By the time I've gelled my hair and opened the door, I've come up with exactly bupkis, but for some reason I'm hopeful. I can't explain it. Perhaps it was getting my worst secret off my chest, sharing it with someone else that makes me feel better about the future. Maybe it's just the lingering aftereffects of my first smoke in five years. Regardless, I find myself striding to work with a vigor I wouldn't have thought possible the night before.

Maybe Trucy will have an idea for a 'constructive outlet.'

* * *

"Come on, ya bum! Is that all ya got?"

A jab, a straight, a hook. All my punches land flush.

"I've seen white-toothed pygmy shrews more fearsome than you!"

I pause in mid-throw. "White-toothed pygmy shrew?"

Trucy leans around the heavy bag she's holding. "Also called the Etruscan Shrew. It's the world's smallest mammal."

I stare at her.

"I watch a lot of the Discovery Channel, okay?"

I shrug and resume pummeling the bag. A left, a right, a left again -

_- "Come on Justice, is that all you got?" -_

- a bodyblow, an uppercut, a hook -

_- looking up at him from the ground, sneering confidently down at me, our two gangs fighting around us -_

- a left, and again, and again -

"Okay Polly, you can stop now."

A left hook, a right hook, a haymaker -

"Apollo!"

I stop. I only begin to realize how tired I am. My arms and torso are covered in sweat, and it's beginning to seep through my grey tank top.

"Sorry," I apologize. "Got a little caught up again."

"S'okay," she replies, stepping out from behind the bag, clad in her sky blue track suit with red piping. "Just as long as it only happens in here."

"I promise," raising my right hand palm forward.

"Good," she says, high fiving me, though that wasn't what I meant and I think she knew it. She takes the towel from the ground and tosses it at my face. "Hit the showers, kid."

"Yes, Coach," I say sarcastically. Trucy has really taken to the position of 'trainer.' She said she'd stayed up all night before our first session at the gym watching all the Rocky movies to prepare. Of course, she'd nearly fallen asleep leaning against the bag, but the sentiment was there.

"Hey," says a strange accent behind me. I turn and a large, long haired, Hispanic man with a body muscled like a Greek god is standing behind me. "That was pretty impressive, yes? You a fighter?"

I shrug and wrap my towel around my neck. "Nah," I say, all nonchalant. "I'm a lawyer."

I take great pleasure in the look of utter disbelief on his vapid face before I turn around and head off to the locker room. When I hear Trucy's proud boast, "That's _my_ big brother!" I smile so hard it almost hurts.


End file.
